Shadows on Carpets
by SolarRose29
Summary: It's half past one and Steve is still awake.


Me: "Oh good, it's summer. I'll have more time for writing!"  
Real Life: "Ha! That's what you think."

Yeah. That's pretty much how it's been. I know a lot of people are waiting on promised fics. Please be patient with me-I want to write them for you as much as you want to read them :)

I'm not sure what's with this short piece. It's kind of random. But that's what I get for writing it on 3 different airplanes on the way to my sister's wedding. (Congrats, sis!)

* * *

It's a cool night and Steve escorts the moon through the dark sky with eyes that are dull, like mirrors smudged with indecipherable fingerprints. He listens to the loud silence: car horns and shiny billboards, and the emptiness beneath. Clocks don't tick and phonograph needles don't rustle over unattended records. Breath that's clean and unnatural goes in and out his body, a thief. It slides between ribs, slipping into his bloodstream and riding his veins like subway lines to his mind. As destructive and inescapable as a wave washing away the SOS in the sand, it sucks away his dreams and forces them into the neon light of a century that doesn't care.

The phone is neon in his hand when it lights up as his skin brushes over the screen. Icons are piled, one on top of the other, on the menu and Steve thinks of mass graves and shriveled limbs. So he thinks instead of the tutorial Stark gave him, introducing him to the plethora of features and apps. Looking at all the tiny pictures under the glass, he comes to realize that he's not afraid of being confused by them. He's afraid because he knows exactly what each and every one of them can do. It means he's one step closer to being fully acclimated into this time. And with every step into the future, he moves that much farther away from the past.

It's half past one and he tucks the device away, shoving it into the pocket of the leather jacket that lies just so on his shoulders. Crumpled dollar bills, bearing dates from the years he spent frozen, seductively stroke his palms. They have nothing to give him and he withdraws his hand. Across his knuckles, dark little scabs dry like spray paint graffiti on a back alley dumpster. They'll be gone by tomorrow. The serum heals him quickly, erasing every sign of every fight he's ever been in. There are no marks on his body and he tries to keep them from his mind. But sometimes, he thinks if someone cut open his skull and pulled out his brain, it might be a carved jack o' lantern of pain and memories.

Someone moves in the hallway behind him. They don't make a sound, but they don't have to. Steve turns away from the window, leaving the shadow image of his body in the glass. The light from the ever-waking city comes in behind him, illuminating his company but leaving him in shadow. There's the space of a sharp inhale, the acquisition of oxygen, as the startled person in the doorway realizes she is not alone. With the slight bow of his head, or perhaps the twitch of his fingers at his side, Steve silently communicates an invitation. Natasha takes it, a prescribed medication from a trusted physician, and steps into the room.

The room contains a couch, an armchair, a coffee table and too much emptiness for anyone to stomach. Like a ship with too much water in its hold, Natasha sinks onto the padded cushions of the sofa. Her eyes are twin pools of liquid mercury, shifting and poisonous. She fixes them on Steve, skewering him against the cityscape visible behind his silhouette. He waits. Gradually, like the climbing temperature in a body caught by fever, her eyes take what she needs from him. It's a slow sucking of vitality, a spider gorging itself on insect organs, a disgusting yet necessary transfer of life and nutrients.

Life has a way of isolating good people, stranding them on a desert island until their skin browns and their insides shrivel. Steve knows this because it's happened to his friends, in a century passed and buried in history book tombs. He knows because it's happening to his friends now. So if one of them can hollow him out, scavenge his remains in order to postpone their own descent into disenchantment, he's willing to be the main course. They won't be taking anything he can't learn to live without. He's become very good at being without.

Without prompting, Natasha suddenly breaks eye contact. It's the removal of a hot poker, the source of pain gone but its effects lingering. She's had her fill. Drunk on the reassurance that there is at least one man on the earth who will give without taking, she stands. And it's then that his presence swells in her mind, filling up the cracks and smoothing the edges, until there's no room for the past, for mistakes, for rational thought. She takes one step forward, bare feet noiseless over the carpet. He doesn't move back. Another step forward, another inch toward a barbed wire fence. The moonlight hits her then, tracing the outline of her body, highlighting her curves in silver, her collarbone in white. She's close now. His hand is at his side and she brushes his fingers with hers, stripped electrical wires crackling at each other's contact. She latches on, curling about his wrist, feeling the rhythm of his pulse point. He is warm and here. His hands are not soft, but she knows they would be gentle on her skin. She wants him. She could have him. She knows it. But at the exact moment she's going to bring her body against his, capture him like all the others, she looks up at his eyes.

Against all odds, Natasha pulls away. There should be some response inside him, he thinks. But he feels neither disappointment nor relief. He is simply existing, a skeleton padded by muscle and cushioned in blood, standing in a dark room with a beautiful woman turning away from him. Those are the facts. Facts are what get written down in history books. Black words on white paper. Black shadows on white carpet.

The carpet muffles Natasha's retreating footsteps. Steve watches her leave the same way he watched her come.

He is different afterwards. A little less like Steve Rogers. A little more like car horns and cell phones and dead insects. But that's all on the inside, on the top shelf of a locked closet. On the outside, he can still smile. Peel back shaped lips from pink gums to reveal flat teeth. A convincing disguise when called for. Performer's make-up and showman's mask all in one simple expression. The purpose is to entertain, to distract, to deceive. His audience is the world, his team. His own eyes when he stares at his reflection and wonders if the good man who used to live there could have survived seventy years of cold isolation.

Cold water runs from the faucet in the kitchen. He listens to its tumbling dialogue until it shuts off. There's the noise of glass on counter top, bare feet on tile, then nothing. Somewhere deep in the walls, mechanical gears churn, electricity hums, and a metal box ascends the Tower. It takes a moment for the car to reach the appropriate floor. Only once it reaches its destination does he move. He turns back toward the window and crosses his arms. Like a sentinel carved from ancient stone, he watches the city with chiseled gaze and set mouth. It won't be long until the sun rises.

Long shadows pantomime man and furniture. Below, the streets begin to move, cars like red blood cells in a pulsing vein, the dictated throbbing of greed and survival. They are mere pinpricks at this distance, simple specks of motion and light, scurrying to and fro. His eyes trace them, following the lanes of traffic. It's observation, nothing more. It can't possibly be anything more. The law of physics restrain and contain, dividing the world into what he can change and what he can not, what he should and what he must. It's comfort, burden, responsibility and frustration all at once. He wonders how life would be different if he could decide for himself. He supposes he'll never know.

Never before has dawn been like this. Just along the horizon's edge, the sky blushes rose and bruises violet. A few wisps of cloud pollute the atmosphere, scuffs and blemishes on a fresh canvas. The morning starts with color, which morphs into light. The bright disk of the sun bursts over the buildings, a torrent of polished gold, rushing endlessly over the earth. It floods through the window, glass an insubstantial obstacle.

Through his shirt, the sun heats his skin, warming his chest and raising his core temperature. He experiences the change, motionless and contemplative. It's been a while since he's felt heat like this. He used to mark the change-between hot and cold, fire and ice, possibility and past. He doesn't anymore. It doesn't matter. He no longer shivers when he dreams and that's progress. It must be. He no longer dreams either. And that's progress too.

Progress motivates the innovators and soon Tony comes into the room. Steve gives him a casual nod, the customary greeting between acquaintances, the first stone of a long path. Without the aid of caffeine, Tony is unable to process anything in the morning. Steve doesn't hold it against him. The others will also be waking soon. Tony mumbles something about coffee, stumbling toward the kitchen. Steve follows him, face settling into the expected expression.

It's another day, with new responsibilities and old pains.


End file.
